


Daybreak

by MadTheLine



Series: Twenty Four Hours [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anniversary, Cute, Dogs, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gen or Pre-Slash, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV John Watson, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock is tiny, Sleeping Together, Sleepy Cuddles, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:57:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10002629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadTheLine/pseuds/MadTheLine
Summary: His eyes adjusted to the light slowly.John had always thought that Sherlock was beautiful. His shock of black hair, his sculpted curls, the way the beauty marks on his neck drew his eyes; John had a hard time ever looking away from the gorgeous lines of him. The concave of the space between his slightly opened lips drew John's eye, the hollow of his collarbone, exposed by the collar of his sleep shirt, a dramatic dip where his pulse was visible in his artery, a visible reminder of Sherlock's humanity, his fallibility.He slept on, a Snow White against his stark sheets, and John would kiss him if he could, but he had not the courage of a prince.





	1. Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed. Will be updated in a few days. A moment I couldn't get out of my head.

His eyes adjusted to the light slowly. 

The first thing he registered was that he had left the curtains open. 

Specks of dust floated in the white light that filtered in from the street. It had snowed last night, and consequently the light was strong, even for a hazy London morning.

Then he noticed that the curtains weren't his own.

He was in Sherlock's bed.

Surprisingly, that revelation didn't send John into a panic. He registered it calmly and without moving from his comfortable position on his back. It was too early for him to stress about something that probably had a good explanation.

If only he could remember why he was asleep in Sherlock's room.

The bed was just so warm. Sherlock's sheets were smooth and smelled like his fancy conditioner, which reminded John of home, of safety. John tried to think back to what he had done last night after dinner, but he felt himself sinking back into slumber until...

A long arm wrapped itself around John's middle.

His eyes shot open, blinking blearily in the sudden cold light.

John noticed something his eyes hadn't before. A tuft of fluffy brown hair stuck out from under the sheets in front of his chest. Sherlock's curls were the most John could make out of him. The rest was snuggled up against John's left side and front. 

John definitely didn't remember going to bed with Sherlock in it. 

He thought back to the day before, but couldn't recall going to bed at all. 

_Wait._

_That's right._

John had been going over the latest blog post, and Sherlock had wanted to read it, so they headed to Sherlock's room to stretch out on the bed. Sherlock made his usual gripes about John's romanticizing of their adventures, but John knew the truth. Every complaint about his writing was a roundabout compliment in a way. Sherlock never said he liked the blog. He only corrected some of John's grammar and complained about the factual inaccuracies. But John knew that Sherlock knew that the blog had never been about the mysteries. It was about the two of them. It was about how John felt about Sherlock, but rarely told him. If it was romanticized it was because of John's rose-colored goggles when it came to Sherlock. 

It got late, and they were both painfully bored without a case on, so the night devolved into the two of them playing silly games on John's laptop. At some point Sherlock wanted to share a study he'd read recently on trained bee behaviors with John. John loved the pure enthusiasm and lightness that entered Sherlock's voice when he talked about apiology, so he lay down on the comforter and made himself comfortable. He was really paying attention, but the sound of Sherlock's voice was comforting, and the light in the room was dim, and the bed comfortable, and he guessed he dozed off at some point. His memories got vague after that, but he knew that at some point Sherlock must have maneuvered the sheets out from under them.

And now John had a Sherlock wrapped around him, his head, pillowed next to John's shoulder left, one long arm wrapped around John's middle and a leg thrown over his own. No wonder John was warm, despite the cold air of the apartment. He smiled fondly at Sherlock's curls, just barely peeking over the comforter. He wondered how Sherlock could breathe, he was so thoroughly covered. 

John twisted carefully, pulling the comforter down a little. He let Sherlock snuggle closer, pulling his left arm out of Sherlock's hold. Instead he wrapped it behind the other man, so Sherlock's head was pillowed on John's left breast instead of cutting off circulation to his left hand. John tentatively soothed his hand down Sherlock's side and back when he wrinkled his nose in his sleep. John startled when his hand touched Sherlock's bare skin where his nightshirt rode up a little at the small of his back, and guiltily jerked his hand back up to holding Sherlock's cloth-covered shoulder gently. 

His face was much calmer in sleep, much softer. He seemed younger almost, his skin dewey from sleep sweat, His curls mussed every which way, and flattened on one side, he was much less imperious and much more  _Sherlock._ Or at least the Sherlock John had come to know, the one who took tea with two sugars in the mornings and never had toast without strawberry jam. Jam, never jelly. John had learned the hard way. 

John had always thought that Sherlock was beautiful. It had little to do with sexual attraction, or John's feelings for Sherlock, though they did exist. He had always just accepted that Sherlock was entrancing. His shock of black hair, his sculpted curls, the way the beauty marks on his neck drew his eyes; John had a hard time ever looking away from the gorgeous lines of him. The concave of the space between his slightly opened lips drew John's eye, the hollow of his collarbone, exposed by the collar of his sleep shirt, a dramatic dip where his pulse was visible in his artery, a visible reminder of Sherlock's humanity, his fallibility. In a way, John had always been in love with Sherlock; even before he fell for him, before they were best friends even, he was still the most beautiful man John had ever seen. 

He slept on, a Snow White against his stark sheets, and John would kiss him if he could but he had not the courage of a prince.

John buried his nose in Sherlock's hair, like he'd fantasized about before. It smelled exactly as he expected it too, like the conditioner that pretty much defined Sherlock's personal scent and the scent of everything he owned--a soft rose and jasmine blend tempered with an undertone of vanilla, which reminded John of his mother's rosewater spray. He couldn't get enough of that scent. It mingled with Mrs. Hudson's lavender perfume which laced the halls of 221B, and the clean eucalyptus oil cleaning spray she used to maintain the floors and dust the furniture. He kissed Sherlock's scalp and pulled back to watch his face once more.

Sherlock's eyelids flickered periodically, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to keep sleeping. John waited, watching his face closely, close enough to count each long, romantic eyelash. John couldn't decide if he wanted his friend to wake up or not, whether he wanted to know what came after their strangely intimate morning. Before long, Sherlock's eyes blinked, once, twice, and then he blearily squinted and whispered almost inaudibly, 

"John?"

His whisper turned into a yawn, which left made John yawn, as he answered, "Yeah. Morning, Sherlock."

"You're in my bed," Sherlock stated sleepily. He squeezed his arm around John's middle.

It was clear to John that Sherlock was not entirely awake yet, or he wouldn't dare be so affectionate. So John took advantage.

He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Yes, I am. And I sure am glad, because you are an astoundingly warm blanket. You saved my toes from falling off and becoming a part of your experiments."

Sherlock arched his head into the touch, then frowned.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Is this real?"

John nodded, continuing to pet the downy curls on Sherlock's nape. "Why wouldn't it be Sherlock?"

Sherlock sat up, John's arm falling off his shoulder as he did. 

"It's Saturday."

"Yeah it is, love."

Sherlock, ever the detective, never missed anything. He looked at John sharply.

John gave nothing away in his expression, watching Sherlock back calmly.

"What do you want to do today? You have off from clinic." Sherlock replied after a moment. Either he'd decided to let it go, or he though John hadn't noticed his own slip.

John smiled. "How about we go for a walk in the snow?"

 

...

 


	2. Melt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock take a walk. Beta-ed by dontyoudarestiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your feedback and support!

Baker Street was quiet under snow.

In the wee hours of the morning, London was usually still bustling, as people rushed about, getting coffee before work at Speedy’s or heading to the nearby Tube Station.

After a snowfall, it was like someone had thrown a blanket over the city of Westminster. John could hear almost nothing besides the crunch of his and Sherlock’s boots as they headed to Regent’s Park. The quiet wasn't oppressive, but rather comforting. John felt as though time had frozen, a moment of calmness insulated just for the two of them.

Sherlock’s breath was loud to John, puffing in the cold air. Flurries still fell gently in the windless air, and landed gently in Sherlock’s curls. He still had bedhead, not having bothered to fix his hair before they headed out. It was uncharacteristic, and John had to refrain from commenting, but somewhere in his heart he was elated. He adored Sherlock unkempt and domestic. It was something he shared with very few people, a vulnerable side John knew he liked to keep under wraps. The fact that he let his hair be that particular morning thrilled John. It signified to John that Sherlock felt the same wordless, muffled calmness that John did. That this morning, this moment was just for them.

John smiled at him, overwhelmed with gratefulness. Sherlock met his gaze and smiled back, a bit quizzically, as if he was trying to get a read on John’s fond mood.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just grateful.”

“John, you may be older than me, but you're not that old that you need to act like a nostalgic old man.” The words were harsh but they had no bite to them. A telltale curl to his lips gave him away.

“Ah, but you keep me young, Sherlock, always chasing after you. Don't worry about me being nostalgic, it's only because of what day it is.”

Sherlock didn't question him about the day. He knew what day it was. He knew why John had taken this particular Saturday off from clinic work.

The park was nearly empty. A couple of dog walkers passed them by in a bustle, but they were the only strollers--the only ones not in a rush. The world seemed enveloped in a spell, contained in a way it never was. London slumbered on.

John felt at peace, falling in beside his companion. Companion. The word ring true, though John had always suffered so to define his relationship with Sherlock. Companion. He didn't feel the need to justify his relationship with Sherlock to himself. They enjoyed each other’s company, and would never willingly part. They were partners, always had been, and always would be. John felt confident in that now. There had been times in the past that John had doubted Sherlock’s devotion, but now he never did.

“Look.”

John followed Sherlock’s pointing finger. Off the park path a red-furred dog was digging a hole in the snow by a tree. There was movement at the root of the tree, and as he watched John could make out the shape of a puppy nestled there.

They looked at each other, and then wordlessly approached.

John hung back, not wanting to scare the creature as Sherlock leaned down, blue scarf brushing the snowbanks as he clucked at the animal. The mother had an old, worn collar, but no tags. Her baby had none.

The mother approached Sherlock warily, but when he put out a hand for her to smell, she sidled up to it without pause, allowing him to pet her between the ears. She was long-eared and long-haired, her feathery pelt seemingly very soft to the touch.

“She's clearly someone’s pet.” John offered from where he stood.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. Explain.

“Well she's wearing a collar, and it is old, but she herself is not very dirty, which is surprising given how wet it’s been lately. She seems purebred. A setter or a spaniel--I could never tell them apart. No purebred would remain a stray for long, and had she been out here longer than a week she would definitely be dirtier with long fur like that. And a puppy wouldn’t last long in this cold without food. She probably wandered off to give birth. Poor thing, someone’s probably worried sick looking for her.” John leaned down and she nuzzled his hand as he stroked her silky ears. “She isn’t skittish either, so not abused then. Therefore, a pet.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “Very good, John. Very good.” He stood from his stoop and made his way over to the puppy, who sat by the tree. John followed, and the setter followed a step behind.

“You missed one thing, though.”

“What?”

“This isn’t her puppy.”

The setter (John had decided she was a setter) curled around the puppy, and suddenly John felt a fool for not noticing the differences. The puppy, too young to be a recognizable breed, but old enough to have short fur, was a distinct tan color, a shade lighter than the setter, with a dark, pushed in snout. Despite the puppy’s youth, it was clearly a different breed. It lay on its stomach, shivering in the snow.

Careful to move slowly so as to not alarm the setter, Sherlock unwrapped his scarf from his neck and letting her smell it first, wrapped it around the puppy, lifting the creature into his arms. The setter let out a short bark, but John dropped to his knees and soothed her, and she jumped up to a standing position.

“Come John, she’ll follow us.”

Sherlock led them out of the park. The dog trotted only a half step behind them, letting out a soft whine. Sherlock folded the sleeping puppy into his coat, cradling it against his chest.

“So if the puppy isn’t hers, why is she caring for it?”

Sherlock glanced left, before crossing the road. “Some dogs have incredibly maternal instincts. They’re very sympathetic creatures, and often adopt even the offspring of other species.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’ve heard of dogs raising kittens and such.” John had to trot to keep up with Sherlock. “So the puppy’s a stray then?”

Sherlock nodded.

London was starting to wake up, commuters heading towards Tube entrances, shops turning their open signs. Flurries continued to fall and John felt sympathy for Sherlock’s neck, now exposed to the bite of the winter air without his scarf.

“Where are we going Sherlock?”

“To find Missy’s owner.”

“Missy?”

“The Irish setter. I...I’ve just been calling her that in my head.”

“You softie.”

“Shut up.”

“So. Tell me. How are we finding her owner?”

Sherlock smirked. “Like this.”

He stopped in front of an animal shelter’s lost dogs bulletin.

“Whoa. I didn’t know this was so close to Baker Street.”

“It’s the closest to Regent’s by far. By my estimate, Toby here can’t have been born much more than a week ago."

"Toby?"

  
"The puppy. The blizzard yesterday probably separated him from his parent--a stray--and Missy here, who is in pristine condition can’t have been on the streets for very long. If I'm right, less than twenty-four hours. We found her in Regent’s Park. In times of stress where do dogs go?”

“Places they’re familiar with.”

“Missy’s owners probably walk her there, which means she lives nearby. The blizzard would have kept her owners from searching too long for her, meaning they will be extremely worried about her. Where does one go after losing their dog?”

“To the local shelter.”

“Exactly. But the snow will have stopped anyone from visiting the shelter until...”

“LUCY!”

“...right now.”

A young couple raced up to them, joy and relief written on their faces. Lucy wagged her tail at the sight of the two women, clearly her owners.

John smiled. He’d always loved dogs, and these women clearly adored Lucy.

“Thank you so much!” One of the women turned to them while her partner cooed and petted the excited dog. “Where did you find her?”

John shook her hand. “Regent’s. Your dog is a hero, by the way. She saved a puppy from freezing to death.”

Sherlock showed them his bundle, but not without reticence. He seemed reluctant to share his little treasure with anyone else.

To Sherlock’s chagrin, the two women immediately began cooing at him, getting in his space to pet the small creature.

“Oh, isn’t he adorable,” The shorter woman stroked the puppy’s tiny ears.

“Oh, I wish we could keep him, but we can barely afford one dog and we hardly have the space.”

We could afford him, John found himself thinking. We have the space.

“He is just the sweetest!”

Sherlock met John’s eyes over the women’s heads. John could see the detective’s facade crumble, for just a second, and he knew in that moment, how much trouble he was about to get himself into.

“He is, isn’t he?” John found himself saying.

The sides of Sherlock’s mouth quirked upwards and it broke John’s heart.

…

“It’s only until we can find him a proper home, right?” Sherlock inquired, fitfully.

“Only until we can find him a proper home.” John agreed, out loud. _Yeah, right_.

“Mrs. Hudson wouldn't stand for us to keep a dog anyways,” Sherlock reasoned to himself.

“Hmmm.”

They passed a pet shop.

John made them backtrack.

They left the pet shop with a month’s supply of puppy formula, a collar, a leash, puppy pee training sheets, a dog bed, toys to last them a lifetime, and a cute stuffed toy that looked exactly like Lucy the setter.

In short, everything one needed to raise a dog.

“He can sleep in my room. I promise you won’t have to see him at all.”

John nodded, hardly listening.

“If he poops, I’ll handle it. Just tell me and you’ll blink and it’ll be gone.”

John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock, offering to clean? That was too much.

“I’ll walk him when he needs it. I know you’re tired after clinic hours and I’m home all the time anyways, so it should be my responsibility.”

Ok, now he was just being ridiculous. John thought about putting him out of his misery. They arrived at the entrance of 221 Baker Street and John put their bags down on the step and went to unlock the door.

“We’ll train him not to climb on the furniture so dog hair doesn’t get everywhere,”

“Ok, that’s enough.” John rounded on Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, fearful. He held the puppy, now awake and yawning, in one hand, he was so tiny.

John shook his head, and inclined it towards Sherlock, smiling.

Sherlock’s mouth widened in shock, and he almost crushed the puppy between them in his haste to pull John into an abrupt hug. John, on the step above him, was just a shade taller, but it worked.

“Really? Did you really think I wouldn’t let you keep him?”

Sherlock hid his face John’s shoulder, murmuring something inaudible.

“Hmmm?”

“I said, ‘You’re the best, John Watson.’ _The_ most wonderful and kind person I have ever met.”

Sherlock grasped one of John’s hands tightly with his free one.

“You’re not bad yourself, Sherlock Holmes. You saved two dogs today.” John squeezed Sherlock’s gloved hand, and dropped it to stroke Sherlock’s chilled and flushed cheek, directly under his eye. “What a hero.”

Sherlock closed his eyes at the touch.

“Happy Anniversary, Sherlock.”

“Not fair.” Sherlock whispered, his eyes still closed.

“What’s not fair?” John whispered back.

Sherlock opened his eyes. “You got me a dog for January 29th. What have I ever gotten you?”

“You gave me the best present, Sherlock.” John didn’t want to beat around the bush anymore. “You saved my life, seven years ago today.” His hand on Sherlock’s cheek dropped to his shoulder, holding him gently.

“Not true. You saved me, remember?” Sherlock looked at him quizzically, leaning in close. Their noses brushed.

“We saved each other,” John admitted.

Sherlock’s lips ghosted over John’s and John closed his eyes.

“We saved each other,” Sherlock agreed.

 

 

 


End file.
